When I was younger, I vowed that I would never wear bi-focal spectacles and I would never get to the top of the stairs and wonder what I was doing there. Those pledges have come true, for I am in the living room wondering why I came downstairs and I’m peering over my glasses at a piece of paper, not knowing what it is doing in my hand.

This is a good reminder for me, that we don’t have long here on earth and that each day, we are one step closer to our demise.

With this in mind, I don’t want to waste my time chasing the wrong things.

While I am trying to cultivate a close relationship with my Creator, there is a constant battle to avoid the distractions that have crept into godly circles, such as, cravings for applause, fame, appreciation, social media followers, royalties, subscribers, and awards.

We are living in an age where it seems that so much focus has been placed on getting earthy rewards for heavenly pursuits.

Some of you will find me boring and that’s okay. Others will think they can do a better job and you are correct. Others still, will not agree with things I say or the way in which I’ve said it and that’s fine too, because we are all different.

The reason I am sat here churning out another book, is because I love inspiring people to see how God is constantly trying to communicate with us using every-day situations.  But millions of other people are doing the same thing in their own special way. It’s great to know that we are all part of a bigger picture that is unfolding into a masterpiece that says, ‘God loves you.’

Also, I think I am one of those people who are a little bit slow in getting the message. When Jesus made-up stories to illustrate a divine point, it was for brains like mine. I’m so glad his mission wasn’t to reconciliate with the intellectual, the quintessential and the holy.

He came into this world to connect with ordinary folk like you and I –

– those of us who are well aware that despite all the good we do, inherently, we are scumbags.

Knowing what our nature is really like is a good starting point. God loves to use the simple and understated things to reveal his majesty and glory. He warns us:

Therefore, let the one who thinks he stands firm, immune to temptation, being overconfident and self-righteous, take care that he does not fall into sin and condemnation. (1 Corinthians 10:12)

Maybe that is why he uses children so much. We have a lot to learn from them and a lot to learn about him, from them.

I stood in the bus station awaiting my coach to London. A middle-aged man in a chequered flat cap and long, beige raincoat plonked his suitcases down next to mine and began talking to me about the impending journey. Underneath his raincoat was a smart tweed jacket and trousers that had crisp, vertical folds running down the middle; looking so sharp, that I’m sure one could use them as a guillotine blade.

He had a posh, southern accent, reminiscent of somebody who has spent their weekends dining with the Queen. His friendly, jolly manner made me warm to him and we chatted happily for several minutes.

Two toddlers were running around the waiting area while their parents sat together on the metal benches.

All of a sudden, the man glared at the tots and grimaced. Eyes that once displayed joviality, narrowed like they were peering through blurred binoculars. His once mellow tone changed to a gravely, fearful voice as he leant towards my ear and whispered,

“I’m going to wait and see where those children sit and then choose a seat as far away from them as possible. I hate bl***y kids!”

“You were one once.” I mused.

“That’s why I hate them.” He retorted. “I prefer dogs.”

He is not alone. Many people would indeed prefer to be in the company of a canine rather than a child, but I wondered what triggered this irrational fear in such a distinguished English gentleman. Were his school years plagued with bullies? Did he come from a large, boisterous family where there were not enough rooms to retreat to his own space?

Observing his guilty glance towards the ceiling, encouraged me to assume a different theory.

He had been the tormentor. The annoying little brother, the stroppy older sibling or the irritating infant whose bad behaviour tested the nerves of every adult who crossed his path.

Yes, no doubt he was remembering what he had been like and maybe up till now, he felt he hadn’t suffered full retribution for his past felonies.

This was the time, he pondered, that the gates will be swung wide open, and a torrent of torture will pour down on him in the way of these two children, who will turn into little imps as soon as he sits down near them.

I watched the youngest child fling a Jelly Tots packet to the floor and push his sister out of the way so that he could be next to his mother. He then extended his forefinger and shoved it so far up his tiny nose that I’m sure I spotted the fingernail protruding out of his left eye.

Umm… maybe this man’s fears were justified. But people, no matter how undesirable they may seem while in their juvenile years, can reform beautifully.

My travelling companion may well have been a tiny terror, but hadn’t he resisted the urge to pull my hair, stick chewing gum under the seats, cough in my face and wipe his runny nose across the length of his tweed jacket? He possessed a handkerchief which he used, he possessed good manners which he used also.

People change and those who appear to not look like they will ever reform, have the potential to change just as much.

No matter what negative opinions you may have towards the youngest people of our planet, God loves them immensely and sees the end from the beginning. He doesn’t just see the dross but the beauty lying beneath it.

Although this book is not about what God thinks about children in its entirety, they are the influence and inspiration behind it. Most of the accounts are true stories or based on real life events that have occurred, all of which involve children. It fascinates me how often God uses these precious little ones to speak to our hearts, even if some of them aren’t so small anymore. So, whether you are a parent of a small child, a parent whose kids are now grown up, childless, or not yet an adult yourself, I would like to invite you to sit back and enjoy the tales that have been born out of experiences with these wonderful beings, who although not yet fully developed in stature and brain,  are very significant to God, because he cherishes them dearly.

I know we should never put ourselves down, but boy, I can be right stupid at times.

Just before the birth of my firstborn, I was invited to the hospital to look around the birthing suite and to have the opportunity to ask any burning questions. At one point, the midwife began talking about nappy changing and said,

“Here’s something you need to know. As the first couple of poos are very sticky, it’s difficult to clean the baby, so use this.”

She held up a tub of Vaseline (petroleum jelly) and said,

“If you put this on first, then it will be easier for you to wipe off the poo. Put loads of it on and then you will find your job much easier.”

I made a mental note of her valuable advice and purchased a tub as soon as I got home. After my daughter Sarah was born, I awoke to a crying sound coming from the end of my hospital bed. She had been the only child on the ward to have woken up 3 times in the night and I wearily switched on my side light and dashed to her cot.

On inspection of her nappy, it was clear that the dreaded ‘first manoeuvre’ had occurred, so I rummaged through my things to find the Vaseline pot. Remembering that the midwife had instructed us to smear it on first, I dug out a large clump and popped it on top of the green stuff that was all over her bottom and up her back. As I spread the jelly with my fingers, the mess seemed to be getting worse. Wanting to follow everybody’s advice to the letter, I grabbed a bag of cotton wool pads with my elbow, placed it across my tummy and with the other elbow (my hands were covered in muck, remember) tried to get a few out of the polythene bag. For, my older sister was a neonatal nurse and had told me that baby-wipes should never be used on a new-born baby.

“Only cotton wool for the first few weeks.” She had told me.

As I smeared the cotton wool pads across the skin, large pieces of fluff stuck to the goo. This was not working!

I rubbed up and down, round and round and the goo followed my fingers and stopped where they stopped. It clung to the baby’s body and to my hands and certainly was not coming off smoothly the way I had been told it would. A lady in the bed opposite groaned because the light had been on for so long and her little tot was beginning to stir.

“Sorry!” I whispered loudly. “I’m in a bit of a mess.”

I looked down at Sarah who with so much cotton wool stuck to her skin, looked like a mouldy sheep. Fluffy, white, with bits of green seeping through everywhere. It was no use – I had to ring for a nurse.

The door slung open wide, and an agitated female entered the room. She glanced at Sarah and gasped in horror.

“What are you doing?!”

“Er, I was, I er, well I’m trying to change her nappy, but I er, I’m struggling a bit.”

“Haven’t you got any baby wipes?” She retorted angrily, still too shocked at the sight before her to move any closer.

“Yes, but my sister said to use cotton wool on new-borns and the midwife said to put Vaseline on top of the first few poos to make it come off easily but it’s er…”

Her angry glare silenced me.

“I don’t know what you’re doing, but I’ve never heard of that before. People generally use baby wipes. That’s what they are for! Use your wipes!”

I was about to ask her to help me clean myself and Sarah up, but she was gone in a flash.

With the slam of the door, (yes, for some strange reason, maternity nurses don’t seem to care about disturbing babies) she disappeared. I grabbed the wipes, cleaned ourselves up, and sheepishly crawled back into my bed.

But I lay there wondering why the midwife’s trick hadn’t worked. Did I use the wrong brand of petroleum jelly? Had I not perfected the swipe properly? Was there something wrong with my child?

It was not until my husband arrived in the morning, that the penny dropped.

“Umm…, I think what the midwife meant was, you were supposed to apply the Vaseline before she dirtied her nappy. So that there will be a protective barrier on her skin which will prevent the poo from sticking so hard. Do you see?”

“Ah!” I muttered as I slunk down under my covers in embarrassment. “Of course!”

You may identify with this.

Not necessarily with the exact thing I did, because let’s face it, that is a ridiculous blunder, solely reserved for those like me, who don’t always think things through. But maybe, you are also cringing at a first-time mum mistake?

Other mothers might have got the nappy changing bit right. Perfect swipe, perfect fit. Not too big that it’s falling to their ankles when grandma rushes to pick it up at visiting time – not too tight that the baby’s navel turns blue and the umbilical clamp disappears into its intestines.

But some of the, not-so-maternally-challenged, stare at the screwed-up face of their newly-arrived offspring and think, “Well, I guess it looks like that because we were once chimpanzees.” They ponder on the apparent big bang that occurred in the atmosphere billions of years ago, producing frogs that crawled on their bellies and humans who acted like primates.

You and I have never gawped at a young child and considered that its new-born ugliness is owing to simian origins.

I looked at my sweet daughter and thanked the Creator God for making her. I knew that I had played a minuscule part in her coming into being. Somebody great and amazing formed her heart and made it start beating at only 6 weeks. Other complex organs were formed, together with limbs and multiple cells. This didn’t occur because of a cosmic accident.

So yes, I’m a fool to think that I can clean an infant’s bottom with lashings of petroleum jelly, and you may have done something stupid too. But be encouraged. Many ‘perfect yummy mummies’ believe that their kid’s ancestors were stooping apes.

 Ah, now we don’t look so daft after all, do we?

She was barely 18 months old, yet as I entered the living room, the wail sounded like it was coming from the lungs of a burly teenager.

My visit to my sister Michelle was an unexpected one. I had popped round on the off chance that her and her little lassie would be in, and I had envisaged them snuggled up together on the sofa, watching a fun cartoon.

Young Isabel, however, was sat on the bare laminate flooring, away from the plush rug, looking like she’d landed there after falling through the ceiling or been part of a magic trick where one suddenly emerges from an odd place.

With legs outstretched in front of her and arms motionless by her side, she faced the open doorway that leads into the kitchen. Inside, her mum was standing with her back to her, silently washing up a pile of dishes.

Strange.

Michelle’s arms were elbow-deep in a sink of hot, soapy suds, yet her daughter was dressed as if they were about to go out.

The house was very warm, yet Isabel resembled a snowman. A thick, woolly hat was on her head and it was fastened with a strap beneath her chin. A large lilac pom-pom bobbed about on its pinnacle like a balloon tied to the top of a tent. Every time Izzy inhaled deeply in order to exhale an even louder yowl than before, it wobbled precariously from side to side.

She had on a winter coat that was buttoned up to the neck and a scarf draped around it in a knot. Elastic that was threaded through the arm holes were attached to mittens that were hiding her hands. Thick, white tights clung tightly to her chubby legs and her shoes were fastened with shiny buckles.

“Hello Isabel,” I interrupted. “what’s wrong?”

Like an arthritic owl, Izzy slowly turned her head around 180 degrees, and looked up at me. She momentarily went quiet, but her mouth remained wide open as if she had been inflicted with Lockjaw. Stood before her was another adult who most likely would not be the desired accomplice she needed. As I was of no use to her plight, her head swivelled back round to face her mother and the howling resumed at higher pitch.

Stepping forward, I could see a pained expression on her face that indicated she was failing at getting her own way. She blinked hard so that a tear plopped onto her red cheek, but something about her posture and gaze told me that this was more owing to anger than sadness. This wasn’t a lonely moment. This wasn’t an ‘I’m in pain and need a hug!’ scenario. It was a story of, ‘I want it now!’

Her mother, who had not even dared to turn around to greet me, was doing her utmost to ignore her. By the jerky way in which she was handling the wares and the speed at which cutlery was being thrown into the plastic tray, my suspicions were confirmed.

Her firstborn was having a mighty tantrum. Another one. And my poor sis’ was doing her best to ensure that she won this round.

It was also evident that prior to my arrival, they had planned to go for a lovely mother-daughter walk in the crisp air and wintery sunshine. Something had ‘kicked off’ causing the behaviour of this cute, but strong-willed tot to rapidly decline. Michelle had decided that Izzy will have to wait, but my determined niece was having none of it. She wanted her recent misdemeanour to be instantly overlooked so that she could have her treat.

Her mother wanted her to learn that bad attitudes are not to be rewarded with fun.

As Isabel continued with her Oscar-winning performance, I wanted to laugh. For some reason, the naughtiness of other people’s kids is far more amusing than that of one’s own – in fact, if it had been my Sarah acting in this way, I would not have been the slightest bit amused.

I wondered how many times I had hollered at God because he did not do as I had asked. How often had he withheld something from me because I had proved too immature to receive it? Like Izzy, had I refused to accept that there are consequences for bad behaviour? Had I continued to be immature and throw a dreadful tantrum?

For the Lord disciplines and corrects those whom he loves, and he punishes every son whom he receives and welcomes into his heart. (Hebrews 12:6)

I’m sure there have been plenty times when I have spiritually misbehaved.  The only thing is, when I do it, I don’t look as cute.

At the checkout in a bargain store, a toddler was sitting in a large trolley. His parents were being served and it was evident that they were purchasing many goods. One of the items on the conveyor belt was a pack of 5 Cadburys Crème Eggs. The boy’s mouth was smothered in brown sludge, indicating that he had recently consumed a chocolate delicacy. But he was shouting, “Egg!” very loudly. With both arms stretched out wide, he flexed his sticky fingers while glaring angrily at this mother. The dad was standing behind the trolley and doing nothing to pacify his son.

“Egg!” “Egg!” “Egg!” “Egg!” “Egg!” “Egg!”

This continued for several minutes.

Being strapped into the trolley seat, he was unable to do any damage, but his little body began to rock violently back and forth as he thrashed his legs against the metal bars.

 “Ehhhhhgg!”

His mother could stand it no longer and reached out for the chocolates that had not yet been paid for. She asked the cashier to scan them quickly and promptly began to open the box. Laminated cardboard in shades of purple, yellow and red, flew onto the floor as customers watched the mother frantically shove a foiled oval ball into her child’s hands.

“There you go Poppet.”

Poppet? Poppet? That’s what I call my child when she’s being sweet! He was acting like a quintessential brat.

Customers began shaking their heads and muttering things like,

“My child would be made to wait!”

“If that was my kid, he’d be getting no egg!”

A particular worry that seems prevalent amongst many parents, is the fear of scolding, reprimanding and chastising their children, because they think this will make them grow up to hate them. I’m not talking about being overly strict or abusing them, I mean, knowing when to say ‘No’ or ‘Wait’ or ‘You are not getting that now because you are behaving badly.’

It is sad when we as parents fail to realise that our children’s anger towards us is part of human nature and if we pander to their wilful ways, it won’t make them love us all the more.

In reality, our kids are more likely to hate us if we give in to their every whim.

The little boy was neither starving hungry, nor neglected. He now knows that if he makes enough fuss, he can have what he wants, even though it is not necessarily good for him. Aren’t many adults like that? I wonder how that began?

I am so grateful for all the no’s my parents gave me. Yes, I still wish I had been given that pogo stick, space hopper and Katie Kopycat doll for Christmas. Up until about the age of 11, each birthday I secretly wished that one of those 3 toys would emerge from the wrapping paper. But, my life is none the worse for having been deprived of them as a child. 

Besides, I got my space hopper in the end. On my 34^th birthday, my house mate presented me with the most amazing, yellow, bouncy ball. As I clung to its wobbly ears, I had many jolly days prancing around the living room.

The grin on my face was larger than the one on the ball, and each time I remembered that I was no longer in my primary years, I told myself it was a good workout for the heart and lungs and muscle exercise for the legs.

However, I never realised how hard they would be to steer. After knocking plenty of vases over, one day I crashed into the sofa, leaving large bruises on my shins. Ah, now I know why my mum wouldn’t let me have all the things I had asked for. We lived in a small apartment with no garden, so I would have been bobbing up and down in the living room, where the television would have ended up on the floor, and the pogo stick would have impaled the ceiling.

There are many things I still crave to possess in my life that I know won’t necessarily bless me in the way I hope they would; and I have to force myself to think maturely and accept that we shouldn’t always obtain what we want.

I am trying to be patient. I am trying to not flex my fingers at God and shout something like, “Egg!” at him in the hope that he will instantly adhere to my demands.

Nobody likes a spoilt child, but let’s be honest, a spoilt adult is even worse.

I’m wonderfully content with who I am, however, being black means I have two negative things to contend with that affect my vanity:

Firstly, I have a lot of melanin in my skin which means in the sun, I tan very easily. Suncream doesn’t work – it stops you from burning, but it doesn’t prevent you from tanning.

I love the sunshine, so I don’t avoid it, but if I stay under the rays for too long, I end up looking like a cross between a walking stick of charcoal and Twigwidge.

Twigwidge was a little brown ‘thing’ we sang about in primary school. He was the spirit of the chestnut tree. Kids aren’t aware they are singing about demons being evoked from the forest, and therefore, we happily chanted:

“Tap, tap, Twigwidge, rappa-tap Twigwidge. Twigwidge spirit of the chestnut tree…”

When you look him up on Google, (because you know you’re going to) you will see that he wasn’t that dark, but his hair looked very much like how mine became when too much heat was applied to it directly from above.

This leads me nicely to my second point – my tresses. Negroes may look like their hair is strong and thick because of how bouffant it is, but in reality, it is the weakest hair of all the races, and therefore, it breaks easily. Because it is so brittle, it is also very dry and therefore, if you walk into a black hair shop, you will be astounded at the myriad of products on the shelves, all containing some kind of oil, designed to keep our hair moist and on our heads instead of the floor.

When getting dressed, in order for me to be able to get something over my head without some kind of hair gel transferring onto my clothes, I would stick a carrier bag over it first and then later on, I upgraded to a clear, plastic food bag.

One day when I was getting dressed, I placed the food bag over my head and as soon as I did so, I screamed out so loudly that my housemate thought I was being attacked by a burglar. She ran into my bedroom to see me stood there all forlorn, with crispy bits of blue and pink dried petals, fragments of an orange slice, sharp shards of cinnamon and traces of pinecone all over my hair.

Alas, I had forgotten that I had previously used the bag to transport some pot pourri to a bowl and now I looked like some kind of unique ornament one would see sitting in the window of a vintage florist.

With all the moisturising cream in my mane already, it took a good three days to get the fragrant flower petals and spices out of my fuzzy locks and this is why I ended up using shower caps to protect my clothes instead.

After this unfortunate incident, (we had been getting ready for church at the time) the shower caps became important to me, and I didn’t like to run out of supply.

There is a jolly good reason why I have told you this story, and when I come back to it later, you’ll understand the significance of my latter trauma.

Murder. Normal people are not supposed to want to kill. Christians, even more so, because, “Thou shalt not snuff out the life of another human being.” is one of the Ten Commandments. But more obviously, it is not a nice thing to do.

This aside, I confess I came close to being guilty of this sin each time I sat in the Mums and Tots group listening to some smug mother giving me platitudes about how potty training isn’t that hard.

The quote that I struggled with the most was,

“They are clean before they are dry.”

This basically meant that children learnt to poo in the loo before they managed to control their bladder. Therefore, if you had a child who was leaving little brown deposits all over the house, there was something wrong with them, or there was something drastically wrong with your parenting skills.

Yes, you’ve guessed it. I was the one who was having to navigate around poo balls and facing the distress of finding one appear in a sock drawer, a slipper, or roll out from under the bed.

Believe me, I tried everything. Most writers at this point, would tell you they were tearing their hair out in frustration, but you know by now that because of my afro heritage, that was happening of its own accord, so I kept my hands below chest height.

My daughter was fast approaching the age of 3 and being an August baby, she was due to start nursery school (pre-school) the following month.

“I don’t want her having accidents when she starts pre-school!” I would wail to my husband, who had also run out of ideas of how to coax her towards the toilet.

If this, “They are clean before they are dry.” motto was true, then I had a long way to go before she was to stop wetting herself and the prospect of that was not good.

I am pleased to say that a week before Sarah began pre-school, she did indeed stop leaving deposits around the house and recognised that the toilet is where one placed such things.

However, before that day of triumph occurred, I was to face my hardest challenge yet.

One morning after breakfast, I entered my bedroom to get dressed. Without my spectacles on, I spotted what l thought was a broken-up chocolate muffin on the floor. On further inspection not only was I aghast to discover it was lumps of faeces, but they were sitting on top my shower cap! This was the last one from my spare stash.

Like a puppy, she had wandered into our room and out of courtesy so as not to soil the carpet, the sweet darling had grabbed the cap from the end of my bed and used it as her training mat.

I was furious! In my head, I could hear the gentle voice of the last mother who had imparted the ‘special advice’ to me, and

I realised I needed a whole load more of God’s patience and grace if I was to avoid becoming an inmate.

Prison clothes wouldn’t suit me anyway and there was no way I was going to contend with an unflattering gown as well as baldness (the shock of it had forced my hands to land on my head), so I decided there and then, two things:

1. People meant well. Parental advice may not always be appropriate, but the heart behind it is often kind. Not every mother is smug and proud. They have been through trials themselves and are usually trying to encourage, even if the motto used is not 100% accurate.

• God hears our prayers. Sarah stopped soiling literally one week before starting pre-school and never had any further accidents. Not the solid kind anyway. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you how long the wetting lasted and to protect her dignity, I shall not elaborate too much on that. But then again, you would miss out on the next chapter if I said nothing at all. Besides…Sarah doesn’t mind me sharing these stories. So here goes… (The Ragamuffin of Middle Earth)

“Am I the only one?” is the question many a mother asks herself when she sees nobody else around her going through the same parenting problem.

On Sarah’s first day at nursery school – one month after her 3^rd birthday, I handed the teacher a bag of spare clothes. I’m sure many other mums did the same thing, but here is the question: Why did I never see any other children emerging from their classes at the end of the day, looking like street urchins?

Most of the time, when Sarah wet herself, the teacher remembered that there was a bag with her name on that contained clothes for her to change into. On occasions though, she either had more than one accident in the day, or the teacher forgot she had her own set of garments to change into.

It was hard enough to see my little cutie coming out in a different outfit than what I had dressed her in that morning. She would have her lunch box in her hand, a painting or piece of artwork she had created in the other, and then, trailing behind her would be a little plastic bag with the sodden clothes, banging into her legs as she walked.

I questioned my pride on several occasions. Was I embarrassed? Well, there was no need to be, was there? What parent is so observant that they made a mental note of each piece of clothing my daughter had been wearing? Would they really say to themselves, “Ah, that little girl had on blue jeans this morning and now she is in pink cords.”

Of course not. So I settled my spirit and reminded myself to continue praying that the Lord would heal our daughter from this Diurnal Enuresis.

Everything went pear-shaped one afternoon when Sarah came out of class looking like a character from Oliver Twist. Being a girl, there was no flat cap, but I could imagine her singing,

“I’d do anything – anything to wear my own clothes.”

“You’ve got to pick a skirt or two.”

“Where, air air air air, are my own clothes?”

“Who will buy, my lovely long trousers? Who has bought them because I’m not wearing them now?”

I cringed. Never have I cringed as much as I did in that moment. The word, ‘cringe’ reminds me of a piece of paper being screwed up so tight that it almost becomes invisible. That is what I wanted to be right then when I looked at her limbs.

It was the middle of winter, yet she had been made to wear pale pink trousers that were as thin as summer pjs and had obviously  shrunk in the wash. Instead of them reaching her ankles, they stopped just below her knees. The thinnest part of her legs are her calves, and besides looking like part of Oliver’s crew, she also had the appearance of a malnourished Hobbit. The ends of the trousers were so wide, they were the circumference of a tea plate and as she walked towards me, they flapped around her knees. To make matters worse, the urine must have soaked her socks because she was now wearing ugly brown ones, with a bright yellow pattern.

“What are you wear…” I began, then realised the last thing I should do is draw more attention to the attire of the one from the Shire.

But as I looked around the waiting area, several mothers were staring in our direction. Nobody was smiling – they all looked horrified.

I suddenly raised my voice to the highest volume I could muster without sounding mentally ill.

“Oh Sarah, you weren’t wearing those clothes this morning! Somebody has changed you into this silly costume!  I have never seen those trousers before. Ha ha, as if I would dress you like that! Somebody has put you in these dress-up clothes. I wonder why they did that? Did they forget to help you get back into your OWN trousers. Ha ha, how funny!”

My hysteria didn’t work. I wanted at least one mum to say something reassuring so I would not feel so stupid, but they just grabbed their children and ushered them away as fast as possible.

I turned back around and peered angrily at the teachers. But what could I say? Almost 3 times a week, every week, my child emptied her bladder onto the floor and they were the ones who had to clean it up. She dispelled urine onto chairs and also the carpet in the Home Corner where she liked to play the most.

I made up my mind that the only thing I could do was to fetch a larger bag and write her name on in bigger letters and add a large tag to it as well.  Then I filled it with at least three changes of clothing, and made sure there was an adequate supply of long trousers.

In reality, there are many parents in the world who are facing much more difficult and complex problems with their children and have received much worse care and support  than I ever did. Worse still, they don’t have a personal relationship with Jesus and therefore, have nobody divine to pour their hearts out to. In the worse times of turmoil, I received, love, comfort, reassurance and peace from the One who knows how to help us in times of need.

He cared about every single little thing that bugged me, no matter how insignificant it may have seemed to others, or trivial.

He cried with me, laughed with me, and understood each frustration.

I don’t know how I would have survived those years without God by my side and my heart goes out particularly to single parents who also don’t have a partner to sound off to at the end of the day.

Folks, parenting is hard because life is hard. We were never promised an easy time, but we were promised that he would walk with us throughout the ups and downs. God cares about your children, because he loves them. He loves you too, and never intended for you to raise your offspring without his guidance and help.

Thankfully, my Sarah never emerged looking like a street urchin again. But I did have to pass on a spare bag of clothes to teachers for more years than I ever imagined. I’m not the only one. One day, when concerned that my daughter may enter high school with this ailment unhealed, the Headmistress told me in confidence that, “This problem is more common than you realise.”

And that is so true. All our problems in life are more common than we know and just because we haven’t yet stumbled across another person going through the same thing, doesn’t mean we are on our own.

God came through for us like he always did and saved our precious daughter of the humiliation of being a high school kid with a ‘spare bag’. God wants to help you too. In the meantime, be encouraged, because whatever you are going through right now, you are definitely not the only one.

The special moment had finally arrived. Excited parents sat in tiered seats, fiddling with their cameras while occasionally glancing up at the stage curtains. All those early Saturday mornings of trundling their kids off to dance classes were now going to be justified, as the performance of the year was about to begin. Their wonderful dance instructor, Helen, had patiently taught ballet, street dance, acrobatics and tap dance to children of all ages.

As the show began, everything went swimmingly, and it was soon time for the pre-schoolers to perform. They stood nervously backstage, eagerly anticipating their cue to step forward through the curtain and into the limelight, where a room full of beaming mums and dads were sat waiting quietly. Each strand of hair had been beautifully braided and with their tiny waists supporting a floaty, satin skirt, it looked like the audience were going to be entertained by nimble fairies. Helen smiled proudly when it was their turn to enter the stage and reveal all the hard work they had put in over the past few months.

They entered marching in time to upbeat music and they began to skip around merrily. Every child was holding a baton with a pom-pom attached at the end – not the fluffy, woollen type – but the glitzy tinsel type that cheerleaders use.

And then it happened.

Momentarily, many held their breath, but the hearts of everybody sank; the hearts of the parents watching, the hearts of the helpers backstage and the rapidly beating heart of one little girl. She had dropped her baton.

As the music continued playing, for those watching, it was as if the volume had been turned down to a whisper. But for this infant, it must have seemed deafening, as her brain tried to decipher what to do next. She did what most children would do. She did what many adults do when tragedy strikes: She stood in the middle of the stage, head down, staring at the pom-pom that had landed by her toes.

I was on the front row with my daughter and sitting very near the unfortunate baton. Everything in me wanted to throw my coat to the floor, fling off my boots and fly onto the stage so I could quickly hand it back. We were crestfallen and hoped that maybe another child would quickly reach down and retrieve it for her. But alas, there it remained, lying limp on the floor, although on many occasions it had dazzled beautifully in her hands during numerous rehearsals.

Two small feet stood rooted to the spot, while others rose into the air landing in a hop. Two arms that wanted to fly upwards in a gallant wave, flopped redundantly as the arms of other infants flew high, sending shiny strips of tinsel towards the spotlights above. Two eyes glistened with moisture as tears were fought back; embarrassment, fear and confusion all mixed into one, as it now seemed too late to catch up with the rest.

She remained motionless as the music played and jovial children danced around her. A moment before, she had been happy to be part of a show that demonstrated her dance skills and at the tender age of four, she had been doing remarkably well to remember all the moves. With her chin now resting on her chest, the end of the second baton made its way into her mouth as she chewed on it nervously.

Having been given strict instructions not to pick up her baton if it falls, the little girl stood anxiously observing all the others on stage, who in her peripheral vision, were now holding tightly onto their own batons so as to not incur the same fate.

We all know how immobilizing it is when something we were grasping onto is no longer there.  It matters little whether it was us who dropped it, or if it was cruelly snatched from our hands; whichever way, if often leaves us too shocked to function.

One day we are holding onto our health, the next, we are told we have a terminal illness.

We are planning great retirement holidays with our spouse, then they announce that they have found somebody else.

We talk proudly at how well our child is doing at school, just at the same moment their friend’s car is crashing into a wall with them in the passenger’s seat.

We make a dreadful mistake and are too full of shame to go back home or walk back into our church.

Yes, some of us dropped our batons years ago and we are still staring down at them while others dance around us.

When the performance finished, the audience clapped vigorously, and the youngster may have assumed this was not for her. Yet, if she had asked anyone in the room, they would have told her that she deserved their cheers as much as the ones who completed the sequence, and indeed, she was included in their ovation.

God does the same. He is cheering you on and applauding you for every little effort you make. It doesn’t matter that others are sprinting past you while you are barely crawling. He is proud of your attempts to move in the right direction, no matter how small. He sees the work you put in behind the scenes, so when life knocks your baton from your hand, he already knows about your endeavours. He knows that your trouble is just one of those unfortunate things. But even when it’s the result of your foolishness or sin, he is still eager to help you back into ‘the dance’.

Although the youngster was doing as she was told – not to pick up her baton if it drops – she didn’t understand she was to continue dancing. In the same way, God wants to help us carry on despite the fact that:

The abuser may never apologise.

The business may never survive.

The distant parent may never embrace.

The money may never be enough.

The wayward spouse may never return.

The medication may never work.

The reputation may never be retrieved.

The dream may never be fulfilled.

The children may not follow wise advice.

The bullies may never show remorse.

The deceased will never breathe again.

Your Heavenly Father has never taken his eyes off you. You may feel like you’re going nowhere, but he is right here waiting to strengthen you each step of the way and show you what you can do when you allow him to direct your steps.

It’s hard to keep up with the pace of everyone else and not everybody can, and that’s okay.

He is waiting to jump up onto your stage, pick up your baton, dust it off and put it back into your hands; this time, with his fingerprints all over it. Then he will gladly move with you, helping you to learn to trust him and clapping loudly as you take the next step in the dance classes of life.

God is our refuge and strength – always ready to help in times of trouble. (Psalm 46:1 NLT)

Have you ever had one of those days when you just cannot seem to focus on your conversation with God?

I was in my bedroom trying to connect with my heavenly father. Having difficulty concentrating on the bible passage in front of me, I glanced at the large mirror opposite and thought,

“There’s a hole in the armpit of my jumper. I must sew it before it gets bigger. Umm…the central heating boiler needs fixing. All that grating and sloshing! It sounds like a roaring dragon emerging from the ocean and how did…Oh sorry Lord! What was I saying?”

When I get like that, the only thing to keep my mind on track is to throw a cloth over my head. I reached towards the nearest drawer and pulled out a stripy pair of pyjama trousers. It fitted on my head nicely, but with the legs hanging down to my tummy and the elasticated waist draped in an arch shape over my eyebrows, I looked like an Egyptian pharaoh. Also, I could still see too much in my peripheral vision, so I tossed it onto the floor and yanked out the rest of the clothes from that drawer. Amongst the mess, I found a bright pink negligee that I never liked. I had bought plenty in my single days, imagining that when I got married, I would float into the room like an irresistible seductress and woo my husband into throwing down his book to give me his full attention. In reality, the shoulder straps snapped, the lace ripped, the satin wrinkled into many ugly creases and that was all before I’d even left the bathroom. To top it off, the blooming thing made me sweat like a boar in the outback.

“That will do.” I mused and draped it over my head.

Suddenly there was a knock on the door.

My youngest niece, Bethany, entered slowly and looked around.

“Ooh! It’s nice in here! This is a lovely room.”

I thanked her for the compliment and pondered on the fact that she did not comment on my weird apparel.

With the frayed straps dangling around both ears, I peered out through the neon nightwear and asked her what she wanted. It was evident that she had become bored playing with her elder sister and cousin, so I gave her a few suggestions of what she could do next, promising that I would join her shortly.

With her wide eyes focussed on me, she scratched her knee and puffed out her cheeks, totally unpacified by my efforts to encourage her in a new activity. Putting on her most persuasive voice – the one she usually reserves for using to request ownership of a chocolate biscuit that she’s spotted in the cookie jar – she took a deep breath and uttered:

“Auntie Sharon, please can you come down?”

The poor mite must have been desperate for company! Why would any child want to spend time with a crazy relative who is staring at them through black lace while blowing a washing label out of their eyes?

However, I was also deeply touched. For once, Bethany was not after some kind of sweet treat. She just wanted me to spend some time with her. Moved by this request, I shifted the satin hat and promised to join her after I had finished reading the chapter I was on.

But alas, she was still stood in the same spot, with no sign of imminent departure. Looking disappointed, but trying to hide her impatience, she whispered:

“Is it a BIG chapter?”

It was so delightful to be reminded by this little token of impatience, how eager our God is to spend quality time with us.

How he loves us to come to him with no agenda or shopping list of wants! Of course, we know he delights in seeing us draw near to him boldly, so we can obtain mercy and grace to help in the time of need,

but he also cherishes those ‘no reason at all moments’ when we just crave to be in his presence.

For a moment, I imagined Jesus walking up behind me and prodding me on the shoulder with his finger. I give him no attention and shrug him off saying, “Not now Lord, I’m looking for a bible verse.” He offers to help me, but I reply, “S’okay, I’ll check Google.”  He tells me that I spend more time with my phone than with him and hey, if I put that thing down, he might even tell me where that verse is found.

Why had I been so distracted earlier? It was because I had a mind full of other things that I was wanting to do that day. When last had I entered ‘his room’ and asked him to spend time with me without needing anything or having a list of other tasks I wanted to do?

Is he ever busy doing something else when I want to chat with him? What would it be like if we had to make an appointment to see him or travel miles just to get an hour of his time?

I was glad that Bethany had interrupted me, because I knew that when I did as she had requested, her facial expression would remind me how we should be when we begin to draw near to God. He is always pleased to see us enter his presence, so we should delight in being with him!

I closed my ‘book of big chapters’ and headed downstairs, leaving my ‘bottom drawer boudoir’ in a mess.

On entering the living room, Bethany gave me a cheery smile. Though, I’m not sure if it was because she was so glad to see me, or if it had more to do with the Kit Kat that had suddenly appeared in her hand, but either way, I had learnt a valuable lesson about how much our Daddy loves to spend time with us, just because we are his children.